Volume 5, Chapter 16

[Guest guest]

Diary of a Traveling Preacher

 

Volume 5, Chapter 16

 

March 12 - May 1, 2004

 

"The Jolly Swami"

 

 

I was waiting for Sridhar Maharaja in the arrival hall at London's Heathrow

airport. Finally he appeared and started walking slowly toward me. He smiled

as he came close. "What chapter of the diary are you up to?" he asked.

 

I immediately hugged him. "I just sent out chapter 12," I answered.

 

He smiled again. "I guess I'll be in the next chapter," he said, "but I

won't be around to read it."

 

I couldn't answer. It was true, what he had said. He was in the terminal

stage of liver cancer, and he was going to the holy dhama of Mayapura to

spend his final days.

 

Two days earlier, in Durban, South Africa, I had received an email from

Maharaja's disciple Mayapura das. Maharaja was in Vancouver, Canada, and

needed a liver transplant. Mayapur wanted to know if I could provide

financial help.

 

I wrote back immediately saying that I would be happy to help in any way I

could.

 

Mayapura wrote back just 10 minutes later. "The doctors have just said that

Maharaja cannot receive a new liver," he wrote. "Besides his hepatitis C and

cirrhosis, they discovered three places where cancer has affected his liver,

making him ineligible for the transplant because the cancer has spread

elsewhere. There is nothing that can be done now. It's only a matter of days

or weeks before Maharaja leaves his body."

 

Mayapura went on to say that Maharaja wanted to travel now and give some

last association to his disciples.

 

I immediately phoned Maharaja in Vancouver.

 

"Sridhar Maharaja," I began, "this is the last stage of your life. You only

have a few days or weeks left. I think it is best you go to one of the holy

dhamas in India and prepare for your departure. You have spent the better

part of your life preaching. You have the right to spend the last few days

in the holy dhama. The annual Mayapura festival is coming up soon. Your

disciples can see you there."

 

I insisted until Maharaja agreed.

 

"Will you help me get to Mayapur?" he asked.

 

"Of course," I said.

 

Maharaja gave the phone to his sister Fiona. She walked a short distance

away and spoke softly into the phone.

 

"The doctors say he won't survive the flight to India," she said, "but I

think we should try anyway. I know India's the best place for him now. I

have already looked into a flight. One of his disciples here can accompany

him, and you can meet them in London on their one-night stopover."

 

Now I was with Maharaja at Heathrow Airport. We walked from the arrival

lounge to the car waiting outside. Many of Maharaja's European disciples

crowded around him. He was groggy from the long flight and obviously in

pain. Taking a role that I would hold for the next 10 days, I allowed

Maharaja to speak to his disciples for a few minutes and then told everyone

he had to go to the hotel to rest before his flight the next morning. A few

disciples, obviously upset that they couldn't spend a few more precious

moments with him, glared at me. I didn't take offense, but Sridhar Maharaja

spoke up.

 

"From now on," he said, "all of you do whatever Indradyumna Maharaja tells

you. The nature of this illness is that certain gases accumulate in my

stomach and go to my head, making me giddy. It is called encephalopathy.

Sometimes they may even cause me to fall into a hepatic coma. Either way, I

will be unable to decide what to do. So from now on Indradyumna Swami is

your authority."

 

But I had to give in, so I told the 20 disciples present to come to the

hotel that evening for a short darsan.

 

At the hotel, I helped Maharaja take his kurta off. I was shocked to see

that his entire abdomen was dark purple.

 

"The blood vessels are starting to break inside," he said.

 

He started to smile. "When the big ones go, I go," he said.

 

I was amazed at his composure, but it was only the beginning. In the 10 days

that I would be with Maharaja, I would never detect even the slightest fear

of death. In fact he often joked with us about it. Later on, Ambarisa prabhu

would comment that ordinarily when someone is approaching death it is a

great drama, but Sridhara Maharaja made it almost humorous. He was always

jolly, up to the end.

 

I could see why he had the nickname Jolly Swami. Years ago in Bombay, two

affluent life members- Mr. Brijratan Mohatta and Mr. M. P. Maheshwari-

affectionately began calling him The Jolly Swami because he was always

happy, and the name stuck. Even Maharaja's website was called The Jolly

Swami.

 

Maharaja bathed and rested briefly, and I allowed his disciples to come in.

For most of them it would be the last darsan, and the atmosphere was

intense.

 

Even before they sat down, Maharaja began to speak. "When I leave," he said,

"you may cry for a few days, but then return to your services. I never had a

family of my own. I took sannyasa when I was a young man, but when I

accepted disciples I benefited tremendously. I felt emotions I had never

thought I had. Surely such relationships will not end when I die."

 

"When I leave, we can be together in a more significant way," he continued.

"Service in separation is the highest. I love all of you very much. The king

is good for the people, and the people are good for the king."

 

As Maharaja was speaking, I found myself writing down everything he said. I

had heard such wisdom before, but somehow it carried more weight coming from

the mouth of one who was about to die. I concluded that wisdom is not simply

the words themselves but also who speaks them and when.

 

After offering words of gravity to his disciples, Maharaja returned to his

more natural mode and lightened up the atmosphere. One disciple approached

him with a rather simple painting of Radha and Krsna. At first Maharaja

struggled to keep his eyes open. It was late, and he was heavily sedated.

Looking at his swollen purple belly and bloated face I wondered how he had

the strength to entertain so many people.

 

He opened his eyes and came to consciousness. Then he gazed at the painting

of Radha and Krsna and smiled. He turned lovingly toward his disciple and

then to the audience of devotees.

 

"There's talent in this picture," he said. "It's unmanifested, but it's

there."

 

Suddenly everyone burst out laughing. He had cut through the heavy

atmosphere in his usual way with his humor. Some devotees continued

laughing, but others quickly remembered the reality at hand and their faces

became serious again.

 

As I was watching, I kept remembering Srila Prabhupada's remarks to his

disciples from his deathbed: "Don't think this won't happen to you."

 

It was certainly sage advice, but seeing a Godbrother my age going through

the same stage of death somehow made it all the more real. "I too will soon

be on my deathbed with my disciples around me," I thought. I admired

Maharaja's ability to give eternal wisdom in such a condition, and I watched

more closely, preparing my own self to give my final instructions.

 

Later on Maharaja began drifting off to sleep. Someone offered me a plate of

prasadam, and I began to eat. Then I realized I hadn't eaten or slept in

over 32 hours, since leaving Africa to join Maharaja.

 

A few minutes later Maharaja came to and asked for prasadam. Somebody

brought it to him. He looked at me. "Aren't you going to eat?" he asked.

 

"I have already eaten," I said. "I assumed you would be fasting."

 

"Eating is the one thing I'll never give up," he said. The room lit up again

with laughter.

 

It was nearing midnight, and I stood up and asked the devotees to leave.

Suddenly one of Maharaja's disciples handed me a letter of recommendation

for brahminical initiation, from a temple in Slovenia.

 

I looked back at him incredulously. "It's almost midnight," I said.

 

"There was no opportunity before," he replied.

 

Maharaja stirred. "What's happening?" he asked.

 

"There are five devotees here who want second initiation," I said.

 

"I won't be around to give you instruction," Maharaja said to the devotees.

"It's better you take second initiation from Indradyumna Swami."

 

Some of the prospective initiates started to cry.

 

"Maharaja," I said, "I'll do it as a service to you, but I feel it's better

you give the initiation while you're still living. I'll help your disciples

after you go."

 

"All right," Maharaja said.

 

I felt awkward instructing Maharaja because I considered him very much

senior to me. We had traveled together for almost one year in 1986, and I

was happy to take the subordinate position. He said at the time that we made

a good team, but he always made the important decisions. I had no problem

with that, as I respected the fact that Maharaja had had so much of Srila

Prabhupada's association. I have always considered it a rare privilege to

associate with Godbrothers or Godsisters who actually served in Srila

Prabhupada's personal association. They often have a special love for him,

and it is infectious.

 

A nearby clock sounded the stroke of midnight. "We will have to do the

initiation now," I said. "All of the initiates can move forward, and

Maharaja will speak the mantra out loud so you can hear."

 

There was no question of Maharaja giving the gayatri mantra individually to

each disciple. The darsan had proved too strenuous for him, and he was

lapsing into moments of unconsciousness. I remembered his sister's words to

me over the phone- that the doctors said he probably wouldn't survive the

flight to India- so I expected he could die at any moment.

 

As the initiates moved forward I asked those who didn't have second

initiation to leave the room. Maharaja slowly opened his eyes, and then to

my amazement gave a clear, concise, and Krsna-conscious talk on the

importance of brahminical initiation. Towards the end he began to nod out

again, so I asked him to give the mantra right away.

 

As his disciples listened attentively he began chanting the gayatri mantra,

word by word, but I became anxious when he reached the third line and

started slowing down. He was having difficulty concentrating- again a

combination of illness, exhaustion, and the powerful painkillers he had to

take just to go through the journey he was on.

 

Suddenly he couldn't remember the next line, but true to form, he smiled and

looked over at me. "You say the mantra," he said, "and I'll repeat it to

them."

 

I was surprised, but considering the time, place, and circumstances, I began

saying the rest of the mantra word by word, and Maharaja repeated the same

to his disciples.

 

But by this time, I was also fading from exhaustion. At one point I forgot

where I was and hesitated for a moment. Maharaja looked at me and smiled.

"We can't make any mistakes here," he said.

 

He looked out at the devotees present. "One of you brahmanas say the mantra

to Maharaja," he said, "Maharaja will say it to me, and I will then say it

to the new initiates."

 

And so it was that the five devotees received their mantra. Then with tears

in their eyes, they stood up to say goodbye to their spiritual master for

the last time in their lives. The departure of all the devotees from the

hotel room that night was one of the most intense experiences I've had in my

life as a devotee. They left slowly, trying to extend every moment for as

long as possible. They inched their way backwards to the door, their tears

running down their cheeks, focusing all their attention on their spiritual

master. Maharaja had tears also, but he held back his feelings and gave

final blessings to his disciples.

 

As soon as the door closed Maharaja collapsed in bed and fell into a deep

sleep.

 

The next morning I woke him up with great difficulty. At first he didn't

know where he was or what was happening. "Maharaja," I told him, "you're in

London, on your way to India to prepare for leaving this world."

 

He became more conscious and smiled. "Yes," he said, "I have three desires:

to make it to Mayapura alive, to attend the installation of the Panca Tattva

Deities, and to participate in the Gaura Purnima festival."

 

"Then we'd better get going Swami," I said. "Time is running out."

 

Several devotees helped Maharaja pack his things while I went to my room to

arrange mine. I carefully put the white plastic gloves and surgical masks

I'd purchased into my hand luggage should the need arise. The doctors had

told Maharaja that his disease would cause him to vomit a lot of blood when

he died. In fact, the pressure in his body might well cause the blood to

burst from his eyes, nose, and ears. They warned that because of his

hepatitis C, the blood would be highly contagious for a number of hours. I

considered the risk involved in traveling with Maharaja, but felt it would

be minimized by careful handling of the situation when it arose.

 

In the car on the way to the airport, I asked Maharaja for his passport and

ticket. I looked at them to make sure everything was in order, but I found

what looked like an error. "Maharaja," I said, "your ticket is only to

Calcutta. There's no return section…" My voice trailed off as I realized my

mistake.

 

Maharaja smiled. "A one-way ticket home," he said. "Mam upetya tu kaunteya,

punar janma na vidyate."

 

[but one who attains to My abode, O son of Kunti, never takes birth again.-

BG 8.18]

 

When we arrived at the airport, I asked Maharaja to stand back a little as I

checked us in. Airlines don't allow terminally ill patients to board

flights, for obvious reasons. And Maharaja, with his bloated features, pale

skin, and swooning posture, clearly looked like someone on the verge of

death.

 

In fact, when the woman at the counter checked Maharaja's passport photo and

looked at him, she seemed to hesitate for a moment. I thought quickly. "Bad

case of the flu, Ma'am," I said, "but he's almost over it."

 

"Oh," she said, "I thought it was something serious."

 

I thought about Maharaja first desire: to get to the holy dhama. "Oh no," I

said, putting on an air of confidence, "not at all."

 

After immigration we boarded the flight. Both our tickets to Calcutta had

been sponsored, and by the grace of the devotees we were in business class.

As soon as Maharaja sat down he went out, and I reclined his seat a little

to make him more comfortable. He didn't wake up until three hours into the

flight.

 

He was groggy. He looked outside and told me we were going the wrong way.

 

"Huh?" I said. "What do you mean?"

 

"You didn't see the sign?" he asked. "It pointed toward Vancouver."

 

I had been warned that the gases in his abdomen could affect his reasoning,

so I smiled. "It's okay, Maharaja," I said. "I'll tell the captain, and

he'll make the necessary changes."

 

Maharaja lay back down and went to sleep again.

 

As the plane sped through the skies I sat next to Maharaja chanting loud

enough for him to hear. I was thinking about how he could die at any moment,

even in his sleep, and I felt responsible that should that moment come, he

would be hearing the holy names.

 

He awoke two hours later, moaning in great pain. I quickly popped two

painkillers in his mouth, and within minutes he calmed down.

 

A stewardess noticed what was happening and walked over. "Is anything

wrong?" she asked.

 

Maharaja amazed me by immediately taking the opportunity to preach to her.

"There's always something wrong in this world," he said. "At any given

moment we're struggling with birth, disease, old age, or death. Therefore an

intelligent person should try to get out of material existence and go back

to the spiritual world."

 

"That makes sense," the stewardess said. "Is that what you're doing?"

 

"Yes," Maharaja smiled, "that's exactly what I'm doing."

 

"How can I learn how to do that too?" she asked. I sat up in surprise.

 

Maharaja reached into his handbag and pulled out one of Srila Prabhupada's

books, Perfection of Yoga. I was even more surprised.

 

"By reading this," he said.

 

"I'd love to have that book," she said. "Let me get my purse, and I'll give

you a donation."

 

In 10 minutes she came back with a 10-pound note.

 

"This is for the book," she said as Maharaja handed it to her. Watching the

exchange go on reminded me of how Srila Prabhupada had preached up to moment

of his death. Sridhar Maharaja was following in his spiritual master's

footsteps.

 

Next Maharaja turned to me. "Can you give me one of those

peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches in the bag," he said.

 

"That might not be the best thing to eat," I said, "considering your liver

disease."

 

He laughed. "At this point there's no question of curing this disease," he

said. "I'd rather enjoy prasadam and die earlier than start fasting and live

a little longer."

 

I gave him the sandwich and when he was halfway through it, a five-year-old

Bengali boy came up and stared at Maharaja. The business class cabin was

filled with well-to-do Bengali's returning home from the West.

 

"Can I have some?" the little boy asked.

 

Maharaja stopped eating and looked at the boy.

 

"I'm hungry," the boy said.

 

Before I could intervene, Maharaja smiled and gave the boy part of his

sandwich. Not waiting a moment, the boy immediately bit into it and rewarded

Maharaja with a big smile.

 

As the boy was taking his second bite, his mother came and thanked Maharaja.

"You are so kind to my son, Swamiji," she said. "You are giving the remnants

of your food to my son. Thank you."

 

"Where are you going Swami?" she continued. "To your temple in Calcutta?"

 

"No," said Maharaja, "as a matter of fact, I'm going to Mayapura to die,

Mataji. I have liver cancer, and the doctors have only given me a few days

to live."

 

I knew that the lady would be distraught to learn that her son was eating

the sandwich of a dying man, so I managed to interrupt.

 

"Yes, yes, Mataji," I said. "He's going Mayapura to die, meaning that he

wants to give up all his material desires and become fully engaged in the

service of the Lord."

 

"Oh," she said. "Very nice Swami. Please bless my son one more time."

 

Maharaja rubbed his hand on the boy's head, and the boy and his mother left.

 

Just at that moment a Bengali man came up to Maharaja. He had been watching

us since we boarded the flight. "I have been observing you, Swami," he said,

"and I can see that you are renounced. You are eating little, sleeping

little, and preaching to the misfortunate souls on this plane. I want to

give you one of my sons, Swami, my eldest boy. Take him as your servant."

 

For a moment Maharaja was speechless. Then he smiled and looked at me. "A

little late, isn't it?" he said to me.

 

He turned to the man. "Thank you, sir," he said, "but I'll have to decline.

I've only got a few days to live."

 

Maharaja was exhausted. He fell back into his seat and went to sleep. His

seat was reclined like a bed, but Maharaja was a big man with a severely

bloated belly, and I could see he was uncomfortable as he moved around in

his seat, moaning. I would shift his position every once in a while to make

him more comfortable. He would drool sometimes, and I would take a paper

tissue and clean his face. At one point, he urinated. Unable to do much, I

arranged his cloth in such a way that it could dry. The air became chilly,

so I put his socks on his feet.

 

I noticed a few of the other passengers looking at me curiously, but I

didn't care. I was relishing the service. I was thinking that finally I

could do some seva for a senior devotee. Most of the time it is I who am

taking menial service from other devotees. "But I like it better this way,"

I thought, "not being the object of the service, but offering it."

 

When Maharaja finally stopped moving, I took the last piece of the sandwich

and ate it. Then, feeling exhausted but purified, I fell asleep.

 

visayavista murkhanam

citta samskaram ausadham

visrambhena guroh seva

vaisnavocchista bhojanam

 

"The medicinal herb to purify the minds of fools absorbed in sense pleasure

is faithful service to Sri Guru. The diet is the remnants of food left by

the Vaisnavas."

 

[srila Sarvabhauma Bhattacarya, Sri Gauranga-mahima, Susloka Satakam, Text

8]

 

We both woke up just before landing at Calcutta airport. Maharaja reached

over with both arms and gave me a long hug. "Thanks, Indie, for bringing me

here," he said. "I love my Godbrothers so much."

 

It was a genuine affection that Maharaja would express often in the days

leading up to his departure. While many of us would lament his deteriorating

condition, he seemed only to focus on the good qualities and service of

those who visited him. For me, it was another manifestation of his total

lack of fear in the face of death.

 

There was an upbeat mood in business class as the stewardesses served a meal

of fresh fruit, buns, cheese, and drinks just before landing. People were

talking and laughing, standing in little groups here and there.

 

But I didn't share their optimism. Being with a man about to die, I was

sober and reflective. In my mind, I addressed the people. "You fools," I

thought. "What is there to rejoice about? Sooner or later we will all have

to die."

 

I imagined the scene to be like the Titanic: people partying on the decks,

as the ill-fated boat raced towards destruction on the high seas.

 

Atmavan manyate jagat

 

"A person assesses others according to his own mentality" [source unknown]

 

When we landed, Maharaja and I felt a sense of relief. His first desire was

close to being fulfilled: we weren't far from Mayapura. After we cleared

immigration and customs, I helped Maharaja walk out of the terminal. I had

to hold him up, as his condition was deteriorating rapidly. Once, when he

gasped with pain, I held him tighter. "Almost there, Swami," I said.

 

Again he smiled, despite the agony he was experiencing.

 

Maharaja's disciple Mayapura das was waiting outside for us and helped

Maharaja to the van that was waiting. We put Maharaja inside and laid him

down on a mattress that had been provided for the four-hour journey to

Mayapura.

 

On the way, Maharaja spoke with affection about his disciples. In

particular, he reminisced about the service of Mayapura das, his first

disciple. It was nectar to hear his reminiscences, but painful as well, for

there would not be many more in this lifetime.

 

We were so absorbed in the discussion that at first we didn't hear the big

kirtan on the road leading up to our property in Mayapur. I was the first to

hear it, and when I looked out the window, I was stunned. The entire GBC

body had come to greet Maharaja, as well as many sannyasis and other senior

devotees. Hundreds of other devotees had assembled as well. Everyone was

chanting and dancing to a blissful kirtan led by Danavir Goswami.

 

"Maharaja," I said, "the devotees have come to receive you. Look."

 

We lifted Maharaja a bit so he could see outside the front window, and when

he saw the kirtan party, tears started rolling down his cheeks and he

couldn't speak. Then slowly, he recovered his voice. "How I love my

Godbrothers!" he said.

 

At that moment I realized how important a place Godbrothers have in one's

life. Just as one cannot love Krsna without the mercy of the spiritual

master, one cannot love the guru without the help of one's Godbrothers. All

three are intimately linked. Srila Narottama das Thakur sings, "Hari, Guru,

Vaisnava, Bhagavata Gita"

 

Because of the mass of devotees converging on our van, we had to slow down.

As we inched our way along, many senior devotees came to the side window of

the van to greet Maharaja and pay their respects. It was a touching sight to

see the love expressed between Maharaja and these men. He had served

alongside many of them through the years, and it was obvious that the

camaraderie they had developed in service to Guru and Gauranga ran deep.

 

We finally drove through the big gates and then up close to the temple of

Sri Sri Radha Madhava. By that time, news had spread of Maharaja's arrival

and an even bigger crowd-over a thousand devotees- had assembled. "A hero's

welcome," I thought, "and well deserved."

 

I helped Maharaja out of the car and began helping him towards the temple to

take darsan of the Deities. But at one point he pushed me away, as if

disturbed that he even needed help. I didn't take offense but rather thought

of him as an old soldier, distraught by the fact he needed help. Maharaja

had been an active preacher throughout most of his life. He once told me

that he would prefer to go down fighting than to die lying in bed with a

prolonged illness. A noble sentiment for any preacher, but after a few steps

Maharaja began to falter, and I had to catch him to help him along again.

 

We entered the temple. Maharaja stood before Sri Sri Radha Madhava and the

eight gopis, his eyes focused on Their divine forms. He then surprised

everyone by raising his arms and dancing a little. Ever intent on learning

the art of dying, I watched him intently, and I thought about a passage from

Krsna Book:

 

"The flames increased as the wind blew very quickly, and it appeared that

everything movable and immovable would be devoured. All the cows and the

boys became very frightened, and they looked toward Balarama and Krsna the

way a dying man looks at the picture of the Supreme Personality of Godhead."

 

[Krsna Book, "Devouring the Forest Fire"]

 

Afterwards several of us helped Maharaja to his room. Many devotees

accompanied us and the room soon filled with devotees wanting to see him.

Despite his condition he was the perfect host, receiving their blessings,

words of appreciation, and encouragement.

 

But soon it became obvious that the long journey from Vancouver and the

darshan were taking their toll on Maharaja. His abdomen appeared alarmingly

swollen with liquid. A doctor was called and those who were allowed to

remain in the room were very sober as Maharaja lay there with his eyes

closed and the doctor checked his stomach with a stethoscope.

 

Suddenly Maharaja opened his eyes. "It's a boy, Doc," he said. The room

exploded in laughter. He was still the Jolly Swami.

 

That evening, we were having kirtan in his room. Maharaja asked to see me,

and I went over to his bed. He was lying down, so I leaned down close his

face. He spoke softly. "You've done your duty, Maharaja," he said. "You

brought me here safely. I'm grateful. Now my disciples can take care of me.

You haven't been to the Mayapura festival for years. You should participate

in all the functions. The devotees will be happy."

 

I protested. "But Maharaja ... "

 

"There's no discussion," he interrupted. "Come to my room in the evenings

and sing bhajans. That will be enough."

 

During the next week, while preparations went on for the upcoming

installation of the Panca Tattva Deities, I would go daily to Maharaja's

room. Though there was some talk of special doctors and miracle cures, I

knew that Maharaja's time had come.

 

One evening I told this to him. I wanted him to focus on hearing and

chanting about Krsna- the final duties of every devotee preparing for death.

"You're right," he said." Let's have more kirtan. I only want to stay alive

long enough to see the installation of Panca Tattva and participate in the

Gaura Purnima festival. My only anxiety is that after Gaura Purnima, my

Godbrothers will leave Mayapura."

 

We increased the bhajanas and kirtans in Maharaja's room up until the

installation of the Panca Tattva Deities. That event was grand affair,

unlike anything I'd ever seen before. Over five thousand devotees attended,

and somehow Maharaja also participated by pouring auspicious substances over

the Deities during the abhiseka ceremony. Watching from a distance I thanked

the Deities for fulfilling Maharaja's desire to be present that day.

 

The next day, I came to say my final goodbye to Maharaja. I had to return to

my services in the West. It took me a long time to get up the courage to go

into his room. I entered, and in a sober mood asked Mayapura das if I could

see Maharaja. Maharaja was in the shower, but he overheard our conversation.

"Come on in, Indie!" he called out.

 

"But you're in the shower, Maharaja," I replied.

 

"That's okay," Maharaja called back. "I'm just finishing up."

 

I opened the door and found Maharaja wearing a gamsha, leaning against the

shower wall. He could hardly stand, but he was smiling.

 

"I've come to say goodbye, Maharaja," I said. I had to hold back my tears.

 

"Oh Indie," he said with his usual equipoise, "we'll meet again. Don't

worry. Service to the spiritual master is eternal."

 

"I know," I said, "but it may be some time before we see each other again."

 

Maharaja thought for a moment and began to smile. Then he broke out into a

song that we both knew from our youth: "Happy trails to you, until we meet

again."

 

Once more, he had made a difficult moment light and laughing I left the

room. But when I got outside, the reality that I wouldn't seem him again in

this life overcame me. Walking back to my taxi, I tried to conceal the tears

that came to my eyes, as devotees came to say goodbye to me along the way.

 

Two weeks later, on the auspicious appearance day of Srinivas Acarya, I was

in Laguna Beach speaking with Giriraja Maharaja just outside the temple when

the news came that Sridhar Maharaja had passed away a few hours earlier in

Mayapura, peacefully gazing at a picture of Srila Prabhupada. It was exactly

one week after Gaura Purnima.

 

No matter how much one is prepared for such news, it always comes as a

shock. Giriraja Maharaja, softhearted as he is, immediately became

overwhelmed with emotion. Waves of sorrow also overcame me, but I soon

checked myself and slightly smiled. I thought about how Lord Caitanya had

been kind to Sridhar Swami. In appreciation for unswerving service over many

years, the Lord had fulfilled all three of Maharaja's final desires, then

took him to a higher destination.

 

I thought about what Srila Prabhupada had written after the passing away of

Jayananda Prabhu: "Krsna has done a great favor to you, not to continue your

diseased body, and has given you a suitable place for your service."

 

[Letter, May 5, 1977]

 

Sridhar Maharaja, as you said, you won't be around to read this chapter of

my diary. But in fact I'm the unfortunate one, as I can't see the glories of

your next chapter of life. No doubt it's a wonderful chapter in service to

Srila Prabhupada and most likely spiced with this humor of yours, which lit

up the lives of so many in the past.

 

I will miss you dearly, Maharaja. I am indebted to you in so many ways, most

notably for teaching me the art of dying. But you will remain in my heart

forever as a well wishing friend - until we meet again. As you said in

London, "Surely such relationships will not end when I die."

 

He reasons ill who says that Vaisnavas die

When thou art living still in sound!

The Vaisnavas die to live, and living try

To spread the holy name around."

 

[srila Bhaktivinode Thakur]

 

Indradyumna.swami (AT) pamho (DOT) net

 

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